


So You're Andromeda

by HicSuntDracones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Narratively Dean fills the role of the girl who's chained to a rock for a monster", As always I, Based on a Tumblr Post, But it inspired this, Gen, I used pretty words, Inspired by Andromeda and Perseus (Ancient Greek Religion and Lore), M/M, No Dialogue, POV Second Person, The Author Very Much Had Fun With Mythology and Regrets Nothing, This is pretty okay, do not know how to tag, loosely, of a sort, prose, that was the whole post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HicSuntDracones/pseuds/HicSuntDracones
Summary: There’s roles to be filled in stories. Archetypes, metaphors, obstacles.Sacrifices.It’s not a ‘say yes’ or ‘say no’ situation. It’s filling the role you were written to play. You are the sacrifice, you are the acceptable casualty, you’re the dead brother along the dead mother, the one who never went anywhere not because you didn’t have anywhere to go, but because you couldn’t conceive a future you’re just now realizing you never had.You are Andromeda, chained to the rock. Waiting for the monster to eat you alive.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	So You're Andromeda

**Author's Note:**

> Did i speed write this in about an hour or two while massively procrastinating on my sociology report? Yes. Is this three times the required length of said report that i probably could have finished by now? Yes. Do I have mild regrets? Always.
> 
> But I'm not apologizing for actually getting really into this idea because wow yes narratively Yeah Dean is the bait he is the sacrifice, in the early seasons it would have made a lot of sense for him to die and fuel Sam's story especially after Season 3 but then fucking Lazarus Rising happened and none of us have been sane since. 
> 
> I should be working on sociology and the next chapter of What We Will because I literally haven't posted in two weeks. I did this instead. Yes I'm proud of myself. Yes, I think about Dean way too much. No I am not going to change anytime soon.

There’s roles to be filled in stories. Archetypes, metaphors, obstacles.

Sacrifices. 

There’s the role of a father, a tyrant, a king. A real asshat basically and the reason you’re in this mess. 

There’s the role of a mother, always present, never there, probably the reason you’re like this. A derivative of the fridged wife trope. Spunky enough to draw interest, shallow enough to be dismissed (especially early on in the tale), tragic enough to draw pity, just interesting enough to be mourned. Not a martyr, because the choice to die for something wasn’t yours. 

There’s the role of a younger brother. The brother is always younger in these stories. Always innocent. His need for protection is his main personality trait. You know he’s more than that, you’re just not sure how. So you fill your role and try not to smother him because if the choice to die was yours you would die for him. Not that he’d ever ask. Not that he’d expect you to. But your pain makes him the main character. 

There’s the role of you. Eldest child, restless child, whole world calling you outside. You’re young too. Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you’re old. Smiles like quicksilver and a mouth like a motor and enough know-how to know how to get people to adore you while never asking you to stay. Father’s pride, father’s pet, father’s price to pay for his own mistakes. You are golden potential, flashing in the sunlight. 

Potential is not always realized. 

There’s a world these stories live in. A kind one, a cruel one. Full of horrors and delights and falsehoods and realities. Here’s a reality: fickle creatures rule the lives around you. They rule you too. There are contracts and handshakes and consent forms to be filled out and unholy wrath visited upon those who cross lines they are not meant to. 

You don’t care for lines, for borders. Neither does your father, but the apathy is different across the generational divide. You simply don’t believe in these things, prefer what’s in front of you. You don’t need to understand it, you just need to see. You see an endless road and an endless life spent traveling it. You don’t know how to picture anything better. You’re content in your shining potential, your endless youth. Your father believes, and your father blasphemies. He crosses bridges and burns them, cursing names and souring deals and doing it all on purpose, in the name of some holy thing that never existed the way he thought it would. He wouldn’t know what to do with it if he had it. Still, he burns in its name. 

Eldest child, desperate to please, desperate to have a purpose and prove your life has worth. Mother’s child, wondering where you get your sense of humor from. Potential, untapped and directionless. Main character status and no idea what to do with it. 

So your father tells you. Says he did some things he shouldn’t have, said a few things he couldn’t take back. He’s guilty, not remorseful. He tells you they’re coming, and they want something golden and shining and willing. Unwilling won’t change too much, you’ll still be dead. 

It’s not a ‘say yes’ or ‘say no’ situation. It’s filling the role you were written to play. You are the sacrifice, you are the acceptable casualty, you’re the dead brother along the dead mother, the one who never went anywhere not because you didn’t have anywhere to go, but because you couldn’t conceive a future you’re just now realizing you never had.

You are Andromeda, chained to the rock. Waiting for the monster to eat you alive. 

And that’s how it ends, isn’t it? The debt is paid, the fickle gods of your world appeased, a younger brother’s tragic backstory written. Your father gets off with a warning of course. Fathers always get off with a warning. Children need their fathers, don’t they? Maybe next time he’ll kill himself, maybe next time the powers that be will grab him fast and accept no exchanges or returns. It won’t matter to you though. You’ll still be dead.

So you’re Andromeda. The waiting is getting to you. The inevitability of it, and the harsh fact that this is the first time you’re seeing the ocean. You always pictured an endless road as paradise, but now it’s occurring to you that there’s so much out there you never got to see. More than you ever could have dreamed of, even given a whole lifetime. The chains chafe and the wind howls and this would all be very dramatic if you weren’t too tired to care. You slump against the rock, watching rivulets of blood paint pictures that say you were here. There’s no shame in watching them so, in slumping, in the tears that go down your face. There’s no one here watching you. Watching someone wait to die isn’t very good storytelling. It gets boring after awhile. Your entertainment value has already decreased dramatically. It’ll spike again, in the moments just before the end. And then you’ll be nothing. The waiting will be over, the season finale delivered, and you’ll be dead. 

The countdown begins. Off in the distance, a wave begins it’s steady approach to the shore. To you. The monster is under that wave, and it will break the surface and swallow you whole then disappear again to the depths. This is known. It’s almost a relief. Cetus-because the monster has a name, all monsters have names it is the victims that are forgotten and nameless and turned into casualty reports-draws closer. You struggle, just to say you did, not because you think you have a chance at escape. Is it surrender when your end is inevitable? 

Cetus draws closer, and you think about how much it will hurt in those last moments, how scared you will be, how the waves will wash away any sign you were ever here at all. Cetus draws closer. 

And then  _ he’s _ there, floating in mid-air with wings on his heels and an expression that’s wondering if he should intrude. You’re staring at him, wondering if he’s lost because he has that kind of face. No one says anything for a long moment. Cetus is still coming. 

He squares his shoulders, clears his voice, greets you. There’s a bag at his side, dripping blood. One hand holds a sword, the other is extended towards you. The sword is obviously practiced, his heroism efforts less so. You can’t even hear him the first time he speaks, voice lost to the waves. The second time he is louder, clearer, and he is offering you a way out. A way into his story, one that does not end in the belly of a beast. 

This is a choice. Right here, this is the first choice you have ever needed to make. What happens if you refuse? What happens if you say yes? He doesn’t know. But he does not want you to die alone if you don’t want to. He says you’ll go together, make it up as you go along. 

You’re good at improvising, and you’re tired of pre-written dialogue anyway. 

You say yes.

So Perseus grabs you by the shoulder, cuts your chains, and flies you out of the reach of Cetus. And just like that, you’re out of the story, hanging on to the side of a stranger. You want this stranger to become familiar, you want your story and his story to become an ‘our’ story because this is the first choice you’ve made and the first friend you’ve had and you are not letting that go. Not ‘not letting go without a fight’. Just not letting go. 

You ask where you’re going, and he says he doesn’t know, that he didn’t plan for this, that this wasn’t supposed to happen. You say that makes it real, and you ask him to turn around, just for a moment. 

Cetus erupts from the waters, Andromeda wields the sword, Perseus shields you, and Cetus is dead. Now you can go. Last links cut and all that. The script’s been edited to shreds, and the whole idea you started out with spontaneously combusts when Perseus asks if he can kiss you now. 

A second choice, and you smile when you say yes, because you have never been so happy to fail at being what you were meant to.

(As you fly away to who knows what life, Medusa’s head is thrown into the sea. Perseus is forsaking his story as well. Free will is more contagious than trouble, and it looks like the two of you will be having a lot of both from now on. You really were supposed to be eaten and he really was supposed to give that head to someone important. 

Oh well. Fuck what you were supposed to do.)

**Author's Note:**

> As always I'm on Tumblr @hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon  
> Scream at me, inspire me, go fucking nuts my lads.


End file.
